Breaking the Cycle
by BlackBird666
Summary: He was a good father. If there was one thing to be said for Draco Malfoy, it was that. In a changed Epilogue Draco reflects on his life and raising his son.


I own nothing

He was a good father. If there was one thing to be said for Draco Malfoy, it was that.

Right?

_Yes!_ The blond berated himself, _yes, you have prepared him well_.

It was true, Draco had sought to avoid the mistakes his own father made in raising him. He had raised his son, his Scorpion, to be proud of the Malfoy name but not to be arrogant. To be cool under pressure, but not cold. To understand the value of money, and of hard work even when so much was simply laid out before him.

That was not to say, however, that Scorpius was perfect. He had been blessed with Draco's beauty, but also his vanity. And there was also, of course, his explosive temper, though it rarely reared its head. In academic matters, which he excelled in, the boy tended to be something of a know it all, stubborn and sure of his ideas to the end.

That last fact rather annoyed Draco. He didn't particularly care to here Muggle statistics of cigarette related deaths when he went on chain smoking binges. Nor did he enjoy arguing politics and religion with an elven year old, though it did give him a little thrill of pride every time the boy managed to outwit one of his little friends in a battle of words. Or one of Draco's friends, for that matter.

He was particularly proud of the expression on his son's face at the moment, and also a little terrified. The boy, no yet even as tall as Draco's shoulder, was struggling to keep his face neutral, emotionless, as his father's was. Yet, for a few seconds here and there, a tiny smile would break free and excitement would glimmer in his warm grey eyes. Those eyes, that reminded him so much of his wife's, not in colour, shape or size, but in expression. They were soft, gentle and too often sad.

The station was packed as usual, so before they stepped onto platform nine and three quarters, Draco had pulled his son aside and away from inquisitive eyes.

"Scorpius," He straightened the boy's jacket, "feeling alright? Excited?"

The boy nodded and gave a sheepish grin, "Of course."

Draco smiled back, though he knew is pulled on his scars, making him look positively monstrous. He had tried to hide them for a while after he got out of Azkaban, but Astoria had convinced him they were nothing to be ashamed of. He didn't blame the ministry for sending him to that desolate hell for five years, for his mother's suicide or for his father's execution. He thanked them, in a way... not for his mother's death of course, but for remoulding him, for baptising him in fear, in blood and in fire.

"Scorpius," he loved that name, that name which had been the last sound his wife uttered, "Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy," he lingered there a moment, uncertain of how to proceed. "You know the reputation that comes attached to our name. You know how far our Family fell."

The younger blond nodded, Draco had taught him about Death Eaters, about the Dark Lord and the dangers of blind faith and bigotry. After the war, the Malfoy fortune had been decimated by the surprisingly greedy hand of the Dark Lord and the teams of lawyers the Malfoy's had employed.

But Draco had built it back. He sold potions, rare otherwise unobtainable potions, that were difficult and dangerous to create: Potter was not the only one with whom the Half-Blood Prince had shared his secrets. With that money, Malfoy business sense and the cutthroat cunning Slytherin had beaten into him, he started a chain of highly successful potions supply stores, and began buying up other businesses, both Muggle and Wizard, until he had created an unrivalled retail empire.

As a result of his business tenacity, Draco spent six days a week in his office, and without a mother, so did Scorpius. Draco had done many a presentation with a little blond baby on his hip, fired employees between making airplane noises in an attempt to get Scorpius to eat his peas, and made vicious, underhanded deals while his son coloured innocently next to him.

Draco had quickly learned the value of Muggle technologies, like cell phones and computers in business, and so Scorpius was technologically literate. Specialized tutors taught him French, German, Latin, Mandarin, maths, Muggle sciences and how to appreciate literature, all in the board room of Draco's headquarters in Diagon Alley.

"Just remember," Draco squeezed his shoulder, back in the present "you are not me."

"I don't understand, father," Scorpius' invisible eyebrows wrinkled.

"I want you to be your own man Scorpius," Draco frowned, searching for the right words once again. "What I did, who I was, they'll remember that. Don't fit their expectations, don't do what I want you to do, do what you think is right."

"I still don't understand," he grinned.

Draco rolled his eyes, "and here I thought I educated you."

Scorpius stuck out his tongue, "the student can only be as good as the teacher makes him."

"Then you should have turned out quite well," Draco frowned.

"I only I'd had a decent teacher," that fucking cheeky smile, visible for just a second, an expression that could have been ripped off of Astoria's face and out of Draco's memory.

"Child, were we not in a public place, I'd make sure your ears rang all the way to Hogwarts," Draco said darkly, though it was an empty threat.

And Scorpius knew it, "I'm terrified."

"You better be," Draco propelled him towards the platform, "If you're not in Slytherin don't even bother writing me, you can go live with your aunt Pansy."

"I'd rather live with Blaise," Scorpius frowned, "Pansy can't cook."

"Touché," the elder Malfoy nodded. "Walk a little bit faster, helps to build up some momentum."

"You just walk into the wall," Scorpius said nervously pushing his trolley. His luggage was designer, of course, and filled with expensive clothes, top notch potions instruments and brand new text books. Which Scorpius had already read. Twice. Perched, a little too perilously for Draco's nerves, on top of the pile was a small glass box that held an enormous brown tarantula Scorpius had dubbed Isolda.

"You just walk into the wall," Draco confirmed. His son straightened his thin shoulders and did just that, stride confident and relaxed. Draco followed behind him, portraying no less confidence, but feeling infinitely more fear. The longest he had ever been away from his son was seven days, when he had traveled to Hong Kong to look at expanding into Asia.

_Christmas Break_, he reminded himself as they pushed through the crowd towards the train, _only three months, he'll be fine...you'll be fine, too._

Across the platform he noticed Potter, and the Weasley brood. Red, red, red, red... ah, black and a brown, how refreshing! Potter caught his eye and Draco gave him a brief nod. _Which was not returned_.

"Fucker," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Scorpius head jerked up.

"Nothing," Draco smiled at him, "I'll help you with your trunk."

"I've got it," Scorpius said and shoved it into the train, "how will they know which one is mine?"

"Your magical signature is one it."

"Really?"

"No, I've no idea," Draco shrugged and lifted Isolda out of harm's way as Scorpius stowed his second, smaller trunk, "but it sounded plausible."

"No it doesn't," Scorpius snorted.

"Then why did you consider it," Draco raised a brow, Scorpius matched it.

"Keeping my options open."

"I'll write you tomorrow, send Athena back with your house," Draco said abruptly.

"Okay," Scorpius fidgeted.

"Do you have your wand?"

"Yes, but I believe I've left my eyes behind," he replied with sarcasm, but it was gentle.

"Stay close to the Zabini twins, they'll look after you," Draco said quickly, "pay attention, do your homework, be wary of Weasleys—"

"Why?" Scorpius frowned.

"They don't like Pure Bloods, as a rule," Draco shrugged, "of course, rules can be easily broken. Don't hold back for fear. There may be a few people like that..."

While he wanted his son to be open minded, he didn't want him to be naive.

"Alright," Scorpius nodded. "I should go, the train's leaving."

"It is," Draco whispered past the lump in his throat. He leaned down slightly and hugged his son, surprised as the boy hugged him back just as tightly. "I love you, Scorpius."

After they broke apart he handed Isolda to his son, and managed a smile, "have fun... and give Filtch hell."

Scorpius grinned, "good bye, father. I love you."

And then he was gone, swept away in the tide of excited first years into the Express. Steam shot from the front of the train, and in a great squeal of metal it departed the station.

To his shame, Draco felt tears prick his eyes. When at last the train was gone from view, he too departed the station, alone in the crowd.

*/*/

Scorpius watched the grassy hills roll by in his solitary compartment, not knowing the oddly antithesis reflection he made of another boy who had once been just as alone, just as afraid and just as hopeful. And who had just as big a reputation.

He had avoided people he knew and sought out this compartment, he needed to think, and to think he needed solitude. He knew he would have to tread carefully at school, the legend of his father's treachery was still whispered, and none too softly. But he had served his time, he had changed, Scorpius could tell that from the storied his uncle Blaise told him about his father when he was young.

He would have to carve out a new identity for the Malfoys, a better one and a more profitable one. he did enjoy cruel humour he was not a cruel person, but after observing his father he had become a master manipulator. If necessary he would use that skill—

"Is anyone sitting here?" the door slid open a crack.

"Only me," he responded, raising a brow, "you're welcome to the other bench."

"Thanks," a thin boy stepped inside and promptly collapsed onto the seat. He had messy black hair that had been tinted an electric blue around the ends.

_What kind of eleven year old dyes their hair?_ Scorpius frowned; wondering if perhaps it was just the lighting, but no, there was some yellow in there too. His father would murder him if he ever did anything that heinous to his platinum locks. Not that Scorpius would want to; his hair was perfect as it was.

"Nice hair," he commented neutrally, testing the other boy to see how he would take it.

"Oh, ya," he laughed genuinely and Scorpius smiled back, "just thought I'd try it. My dad was cool with it, he let Teddy help me. He's my god brother."

"My father would never allow it," Scorpius shook his head. He decided he like the other boy, anyway, the boy didn't seem to mind him either. It could be possible to form an alliance with him, maybe even a friendship. Scorpius didn't make friends lightly, but when he did he forged deep, loyal bonds like the one he had with the Zabini twins, though they were a year his elder.

"Is that a tarantula!" the brunet's voice ripped him from his reverie.

Scorpius nodded, "my father gave her to me for my birthday."

"Cool," he grinned and leaned closer to inspect the tank.

"You can hold her if you want," Scorpius reached for the lid.

"No—no that's fine," the boy said nervously. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy," he extended a hand.

"Albus Severus Potter," he hesitated a moment before taking the offered hand.

His father probably wasn't going to like this very much, anyone could tell he wasn't exactly fond of the Potters or the Weasleys. And if the boy's hair was any indication, he wasn't exactly 'proper'.

But perhaps that's what he had meant, about being his own man.

"Nice to meet you, Albus."

Did you like it? R&R... maybe?


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